Servare Vitas: Umbra
by newscaper
Summary: Alternate ending to Servare Vitas. This is NOT a 'sequel', but an AU. WARNING: Do NOT read unless you have read the original story! You can google umbra yourself. More information is inside chapter 1. COMPLETE!.
1. Prelude

**A/N**

**REVISED 5/6 – added some more key recap bits of Servare Vitas in the first chapter.**

**This first chapter is parts of Servare Vitas' chapters 6, 24, 27 and 28 re-visited in order to recapture the mood WITH ONE KEY MODIFICATION. If it has been a long time since you read SV you may wish to stop now and re-read the entire story up through chapter 27 before coming back here.**

**This will be disturbing at times. One chapter in particular may be rated M. I'll make that clear when the time comes. As a character piece this may also be a bit more fragmented than you were used to from me in SV. I expect it to be a handful of chapter long.**

**You have been warned.**

- - - -

_Brennan's office in the Jeffersonian…_

Booth finally spoke first, looking down at her hand still lying in his. "Tessa thought me being an FBI agent was glamorous, exciting. And a former Army sniper? Dangerous, exotic. But she never wanted any of her illusions disrupted by the whole uncomfortable truth, the reality of it all."

He looked up into her eyes, "Thank you. I really mean that."

Brennan nodded, "You're welcome."

She gave him something else.

"About that number… forty-three…"

Apparently she said it to show she was holding nothing back. Her acceptance warmed him. "Yes?" His eyes were locked on hers again.

"I hope it never goes up…"

He looked down, nodding his agreement.

"…Unless it needs to", she added.

He looked back up at her again, his eyes questioning hers.

She clarified, "You are not a soldier any more. I know you will only be pulling that trigger to save lives, and you will do your best to make the hard choices in terrible situations. Who better to be in that position of responsibility than someone who thinks about right and wrong, life and death?"

"I know that, otherwise I wouldn't have volunteered," he objected.

"Then let yourself believe it," she chided gently. He nodded again.

"Killer with a conscience, eh?" he joked wryly.

"No," she squeezed his hand, "_Protector_ with a conscience."

_Months later on a Saturday…_

He thought she looked incredibly cute with her hair in a ponytail again and a couple dark smudges of oily powder residue she'd unknowingly put on her face as she intently broke down and reassembled the MP5 again like an addictive puzzle. He couldn't decide how he preferred her hair. _Screw it_, he thought, she was gorgeous to him either way. Then he noticed the time.

"The pizza should be here any minute. Let's get cleaned up."

He'd already put everything else away so he went on over to the kitchen sink to wash up. She finished putting the MP5 back together and joined him at the sink where he was drying his hands. He moved to make room for her as she started washing, and he looked at the smudges on her left cheek. He decided to give into an impulse and push the envelope a little. He wet the end of another clean hand towel and put a dab of soap on it.

"Here, let me get that off your face."

She turned while drying her hands, "What?"

He lightly tapped her cheek, "You wiped a little gunk on yourself."

She smiled, "I can get it myself."

"Don't be silly, there's not a mirror in here." He didn't give her a chance to argue anymore or head to the bathroom where there was one. He went ahead and stepped closer and started softly wiping at her cheek with the cloth. His presumption paid off as she made him happy by giving in after rolling her eyes with a smirk. She looked over his shoulder, chin up, and closed her eyes. The smirk left and her expression became peaceful as he softly rubbed.

The greasy residue tended to shift around on her skin, resisting his efforts to wipe it off, but to be honest he wasn't trying too hard as he was enjoying the rare opportunity to once again take care of her. Then he noticed her incredible blue-green eyes were open again, examining his face from just inches away, and he tried to stay focused on her cheek. They were too close. _Easy boy… don't_… but he was drawn in anyway. Their eyes met for an intense moment, and his apparently betrayed too much. She shied away from the unexpected intimacy and looked away, breaking the connection. She grabbed the cloth from his hands and backed up a step.

_Fuck! _He'd spooked her in spite of himself.

"I can wash my own face. I'm not a child." She said it with a small grin, her tone lightly mocking, but he could tell she was a bit flustered as she finished washing her own face with the cloth. But she surprised him while he was still mentally kicking himself. She seemed to collect herself as she laid down the cloth, and turned back to him.

"How do I look now?" she asked, playfully presenting herself as if for his inspection.

He was so thrilled that her retreat was temporary, that he almost screwed up again. He was too honest with the answer that just popped out.

"Beautiful."

_The following Monday, in a corridor at the Jeffersonian…_

Inexplicably, Booth was almost _cold_ to her. As he'd examined her injuries, somewhat roughly even, she'd been put off by his distant manner. His body was stiff, and his face was a grim, rigid mask.

"Booth," she repeated. With her touch on his cheek, the mask finally slipped a little.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry…" he half-whispered.

Even _she_ could see the pain in his eyes. Perhaps he'd been too scared for her. She didn't understand it fully, but wasn't going to let it stop her.

She stroked his cheek and enjoyed the way he started to lean into it. She gently replied with a smile, "I'm ok. It's not your fault…"

But her words didn't have quite the reassuring effect she'd intended.

For a moment he looked like was about to _break_, but then the mask slammed back into place and he jerked back and suddenly stood up as if her touch had stung him.

"I have to go. I've been here way too long." He didn't look at her as he reached around his back and pulled the MP5 sub-machine gun back around to his front on its sling.

"What?" She didn't understand…

"I'm going into the museum," he explained.

She sat there with her mouth open, not knowing how she could have been so stupid. The crisis wasn't over yet. And it was what he'd trained to do. She wanted more than anything to beg him to go back with her to the Lab and be safe, but knew she couldn't. She was ready to celebrate still being alive after everything, and now _he_ was going into danger…

- - -

Booth watched her as she processed what he'd just told her, and it tore at him, the way she suddenly looked so lost and vulnerable.

He turned away to leave, figuring he should just get it the hell over with and _go_, but he thought better of it. _What the hell..._ He turned back to her.

_Might not ever get another chance…_

He bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. Every bit as soft and warm as he'd hoped…

He realized he'd better cut it short, and he stood up.

She looked somewhat dazed, like she didn't know what to make of it. She started to open her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

"You don't have to say anything…"

He had not meant to drop it on her like this… it was simply enough that she had some idea how he felt.

But she still looked lost and he felt he needed to do something about that. He remembered how tight her grip had been on the rifle and he had an idea… he flipped back the restraining band on his holster and drew his pistol.

"There's one in the chamber. Safety's on."

He put it in her lap and wrapped her hands around it. She looked at him gratefully.

"Gotta run." He lifted the goggles into place over his face and walked to the corner around which she'd just appeared herself. He turned around to look at her once more, and gave her his best smile before he disappeared from her view.

He ran.

- - -

After a moment Emily and Angela began pushing her chair toward the Lab again, after the others who'd gone on.

Brennan looked sadly back up the corridor toward the spot where he'd left her as it receded in the distance.

Her heart was in her throat.

In spite of what Angela had once said, he really wasn't a knight…

She knew from experience that the flesh underneath could be hurt, and the armor which protected it was all too small and inadequate.

…and not at all impenetrable.

_Jeffersonian Museum, West Wing, Mitchell Exhibition Hall_

Booth could only think of one diversion even though he didn't much care for it. But it should definitely work. The hostages couldn't wait all day for them to come up with a better one because at any moment the terrorist might realize the jig was up anyway and decide to 'Allahu Akhbar' himself into the arms of those promised seventy-two virgins.

He waved for Davis' attention then gestured...

_You. Head shot. On me. Understand?_

Davis nodded and gave a thumbs up. From the look his in eyes he really did understand.

Booth took stock of himself. He carefully stretched and flexed his limbs to the limited extent that was safe then he rechecked his weapon. He took one more peek using his mirror to confirm the position of the bomber. Still the same. But the praying had resumed a bit more fervently this time, and Booth still thought that was a bad sign.

He grimaced then nodded as he pre-positioned himself as best he could given the need to stay hidden just a little longer. He owed the women on the other side – he was the one who'd been too slow to stop the first batch of assholes to which this bomber and the one he'd already whacked belonged. No one else was going to die if he could possibly help it. Anyway, who knew? He might even get lucky.

He gestured to Davis, _Ready?_

He got a thumbs up in return. Davis had flattened himself against the wall to make room for another man beside him who was already turned to his right, the butt of his weapon up to his shoulder at the ready. _Must be his best close quarters man…_

Booth let go of the pistol grip of the MP5 with his right hand briefly.

He made the Sign of the Cross.

He gripped his weapon again and reached across it with his left and gestured _On Me!_ _Go!_

Rising up to stand was every bit as awkward and slow as he'd expected.

The woman saw him move a split second before the terrorist and screamed just as the man's eyes widened behind her. Just as Booth had hoped, he couldn't resist the provocation and violently elbowed the woman aside as he aimed his AK from the hip, only a small change from its currently slung position…

The woman and her daughter were falling to the floor…

Booth's weapon was only starting to come to bear, in his case having to come all the way up to his shoulder for an aimed head shot…

_Not even close._ He took his finger off the trigger so it wouldn't accidentally go off, but continued to raise the weapon maintaining the charade…

The terrorist's eyes narrowed as he squeezed his trigger...

…on full auto.

Booth's old sergeants were wrong. Even half deaf he distinctly heard the muzzle blast of each and every shot.

The first two rounds missed him low to his left, but the recoil made the AK's barrel rise as the shooter corrected his aim laterally.

The rest of the burst stitched diagonally across Booth's armor from his left hip up toward the right side of his rib cage.

The Teflon-coated tungsten tipped armor piercing rounds bashed and slipped their way through the Kevlar fibers of the vest.

Burning sledgehammer blows knocked the breath out of him as he staggered back until a final deep lance of fire took him to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

But on the way down he heard the double bark of the SWAT shooter's M4 assault rifle blowing the other man's brains out on to the wall beside him.

- - - -

Funny, he didn't even feel hitting the hard tile of the floor.

He was on his back, one leg awkwardly bent back up underneath him, but he barely felt it given everything else that was wrong with him. All of his senses were tinged with a red haze of pain, but his gut felt like someone had speared him with a white-hot poker and given it a good stir.

Women and children were screaming and male voices were trying to sooth them, but one shout stood out over the ruckus, "Clear!" He tried lifting his head to see what was going on, but the effort was too much. Instead he was stuck with a view of the small dusty cobwebs between the light fixtures on the ceiling.

He could barely breathe. It almost felt like he was drowning. He tried to crack open the vest but his fingers didn't seem to have any strength and he gave up.

Afraid of what he might find, he reached under the edge of his vest and carefully touched himself… hot and sticky wet. With difficulty he raised a bloody hand into view then let it drop at his side.

He felt like someone was sitting on his chest, and the struggle to breathe was taking its toll. His vision began to narrow with oxygen deprivation.

But his hearing, at least in the good ear, was fine. He heard running footsteps, then felt tugs at his vest as others shouted in the background.

"Oh _shit_…" That one was nearby.

He didn't recognize the SWAT trooper who appeared over him. He turned his head and shouted, "Man down over here!" He repeated it into his radio, but Booth couldn't make out the response. "Hang in there buddy, help's on the way."

With what little strength he had Booth grabbed at him with his left arm and gasped out a warning, "…hostages… bomb…"

"They're all ok, they're clear. I'm gonna drag you farther away from the bomb for the EMTs so they can work on ya."

He'd done it. _This_ time he'd managed to save her and her child. He'd saved all of them. If he didn't make it he could die happy. He ought to be smiling.

But why were his cheeks wet?

The other man disappeared from his view. Then a second later he felt rough hands at his shoulders.

"This is probably gonna hurt."

He struggled to speak, "Tell her I… tell Bones…"

He was moved and sure as fuck it _really_ hurt. Seized in a vice-grip of pain, he couldn't finish the words. He was getting cold. Hell, he couldn't even _breathe_. He closed his eyes…

_Oh God, this must really be it… _

Stark fear almost displaced the pain. He so wanted to live. In dying he would let down the people he loved most…

_I'm sorry, Parker. Sorry, Temperance._

He was forgetting something else... oh yes, the Act of Contrition he learned back in parochial school…

_Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended…_

Something jarred him again, sending more waves of pain cascading through him, and he heard himself cry out.

"Sorry, EOD says we're still too close. Gotta move you one more time, just a little farther…" The interrupting voice sounded further away now.

This time it was even more excruciating. Muscles seized in agony, forcing the last air from his lungs.

He didn't get to finish his prayer…

Instead, his very last thought was the half-formed, absurd realization that he'd pissed all over himself, and then he died.


	2. Eclipse

**A/N**

**From here on out we follow Brennan, beginning with the start of what was Chapter 30 in Servare Vitas. Chapter 3 will probably be up Tuesday night.**

_Monday, Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Laboratory_

"Wake up!"

Angela was sitting on the edge of the couch and shaking her.

Brennan groaned and rubbed her eyes. She couldn't believe that she'd actually dozed off. Then panic gripped her, and she started fully awake…

"_What's wrong?"_

"Nothing, silly. It's over. They've given the all clear, and we can get you out to the paramedics now. It's time we got you properly taken care of."

Her heart rate slowly settled down. She didn't know if the lingering visceral fear had come simply from being jarred awake or if she'd been starting to dream. If the latter, she was glad she didn't remember the details.

Angela helped her get up and reseated on the improvised wheelchair, then pushed her out of the office. Brennan presumed that 'all clear' meant all of the terrorists had been dealt with. She checked her cell phone and was relieved to see that service was back. She hit the speed dial for Booth…

"_You have reached the voicemail of_ …Seeley Booth, FBI... _To leave a message…_"

Frustrated, she left a brief and thoroughly unsatisfying message, "This is Brennan. I wanted to make sure you were ok. Call me." There was no way to tell if his phone was off or if it was busy. It might not even be on him.

She checked with Angela just in case, "Has anyone heard from Booth?"

Angela shook her head, "No. But you know he must be incredibly busy right now. Don't worry. I'm sure no news is good news."

Brennan sighed. She would just have to try to be patient. Before heading to the designated staging area for medical care, she asked Angela to steer her to the restroom so she could pee. That neglected task taken care of, upon their exit she realized the population of the lab had declined again. She craned her neck to look around.

"Angela, where are the children? And what about Emily and Janice?"

While she was speaking, Hodgins and Zack came over.

Jack broke in before Angela could respond, "The cops took the kids away. DHR is going to take care of contacting the school and their families. As to the Pollards… they took a rain check on getting the proper tour of the lab that you promised them."

"Oh…" It took Brennan half a second to connect the last name with Emily and her mother.

A city policeman directed them back into the west wing of the museum, to the foyer of the smaller non-public entrance facing 14th Street which served the curatorial and administrative staff. People were being assisted there and also on the steps and sidewalk outside. When Brennan saw the bright sunlight of mid-day she experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance as she realized how little time must have actually passed. She checked her watch and it had barely been an hour ago when she and Angela first left to meet the Pollards. Her subjective clock expected it to be dusk outside for some reason.

Shrugging off her bemusement she paid more attention to her surroundings. Several crews of EMTs were providing assistance, and they had their hands full with injuries, many much worse than hers. Many victims were quietly sitting in shock while others moaned in pain. A couple howled and thrashed in agony. Some looked to have been injured by the bombs whereas others clearly had gunshot wounds. She wondered why the wounded were being brought here instead of simply being treated and taken right out the museum main entrance facing Jefferson and the Mall, but she dismissed the question, figuring they must have their reasons.

Only then did she notice that two prone victims were silent and motionless, shrouded in blankets through which blood had already soaked. It was a classic case of triage in action: the walking wounded had to wait, those severely wounded were helped immediately and given priority in transport, and the most hopeless cases shunted aside.

She knew that those already dead back in the vestibule of the main entrance, the Rotunda, and the Gallery still lay where they had been killed. For the moment they were no longer people but corpses, crime scene evidence to be preserved until properly photographed and catalogued.

After processing the sight of the people being treated, she noted the large number of heavily armed policemen scattered about looking grim, some armed with automatic rifles, others with shotguns. It was the proverbial case of the closing the barn door after the horses had already escaped, but it still made her feel safer. Anyway, follow up attacks _had_ been known to take place in other countries when emergency personnel were responding.

Classified as 'walking wounded', figuratively at least, Brennan was directed outside the glass doors where there was more organized chaos. At least out here there weren't any screamers, she thought. She finally got her turn, and described her injuries to the paramedic, who barely glanced at anything other than her leg. She got down on the concrete awkwardly with Zach's aid and started to lie back, but before her head could touch the hard surface Angela scooted down underneath her and made a lap to cushion her. Brennan looked up into her friend's face and smiled her appreciation… and missed the EMT's warning.

The sudden throbbing in her calf when he cut off the constricting leather belt caught her off guard. She very nearly passed out as the renewed blood flow seemed to strike a raw nerve with every heart beat. Her lower leg must have swelled against the belt more than she'd realized. She panted a bit and regained most of her composure, and was twice grateful for Angela's consideration in making a pillow of herself. She squeezed Angela's hand tight as the freckle-faced young tech superficially cleaned the deep wound and carefully re-bandaged it properly. And gave her a brief lecture…

"A surgeon is going to have to get that shrapnel out of there, I'm afraid. I wouldn't dare go in there even if they'd let me. Without an X-ray there's no telling how close it might be to a major vessel or nerve." He looked her square in the eye and warned her sternly, "Stay off it. You could really hurt yourself if you don't." The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact he looked almost ten years younger than her, but she got the message.

"Don't worry, we've got her." Angela assumed responsibility for her with a warm smile and batted eyelashes, which somehow both irritated and comforted Brennan simultaneously.

He gave her a colored tag which apparently established her priority in getting transport to the hospital, and directed them down to the sidewalk and a bit further up the street to the queue for loading ambulances. Jack and Zach helped her limp down the steps with Angela hovering protectively and supervising, and then Zach ran back up and retrieved the chair for her. As he did they were all deafened by the roar of a medevac helicopter coming in low from over the building. Another was hovering in the near distance, apparently waiting to set down.

They had to wait along with several others as more seriously injured patients departed first. Fortunately the sun was not too hot, and there was even someone passing out water bottles as they checked transport tags. After asking to be seated on the soft grass instead of remaining in the awkward though invaluable office chair, Brennan used the opportunity to try to call Booth as she lay back, but again with no luck. As she hung up from leaving him another message updating him on her status and asking him to call ASAP, she overhead the conversation of two nearby African-American policemen, one a young patrolman in uniform cradling a pump shotgun, and an older, heavier one in plainclothes. She caught a glimpse of the gun and badge on his belt underneath the windbreaker. _Probably a detective._

She couldn't believe what she was hearing, and her eyes met Angela's. Apparently the cops thought no one was listening and were brutally frank between themselves.

"Hey Marcus, you see the front of the museum?" It was the detective talking.

The younger man responded, nodding, "Yeah, man. Lord, it's like a fuckin' war zone in there. ServiceMaster's gonna get some overtime for sure." He paused to spit on the grass. "Don't know about you, but I think the Marines or the Air Force oughtta get us some raghead payback on this one…"

The older one butted in, "I sure as hell hope so. I got a nephew who's a jarhead, one lean mean sonuvabitch. I oughtta call 'im. But did you see out front too? _Outside?_"

The younger cop nodded again, "Just a quick look. Holy shit." He spit again.

The detective nodded as well. "Damned straight. I just came from there. God damn, fuckin' EOD's shittin' little green apples. If those motherfuckers'd got inside with all that shit it coulda been a _real_ fuckin' bloodbath."

Brennan was utterly appalled. _Could have been a real bloodbath?_ She'd been listening with her mouth agape, eager for any information, but it snapped shut almost audibly. She was sitting up to give them a piece of her mind for their callousness when Angela beat her to it.

The artist practically bounded to her feet from where she'd been seated beside her on the grass. Jack and Zach simply watched the show from where they still sat, the former one on the grass and the latter in the chair which Brennan had vacated. He stopped spinning around to listen.

"Excuse me…" Angela's words came out half strangled and they didn't turn, not realizing she was addressing them.

"EXCUSE ME!" She found her voice. The men looked at her startled.

"Just what in hell do you mean 'coulda been a real bloodbath'?" Angela pointed at Brennan where she sat on the grass. "LOOK! Look at her! That's after washing off. She _already_ took a bath in it!" She was so angry she had tears in her eyes. People all around were looking in their direction.

Brennan thought the two men looked like they had just stepped in shit. From the ashamed looks on their faces they were probably already imagining their captain catching wind of their screwup.

The older one spoke apologetically. He seemed sincere in his chagrin as he looked both of them in the eye. "We're sorry, ladies. We honestly didn't think we were that loud."

That was enough for Brennan – her mind had raced ahead, thinking more about what else he'd said. What she wanted now was information, _why_ he'd said it.

"It's ok, Angela." Her friend backed off with her arms crossed, still clearly riled up. "Detective, I'm Doctor Temperance Brennan with the Medico-Legal Lab and these are my colleagues. Just what was that about 'EOD' out front?"

The men were so relieved she wasn't pursuing their earlier gaffe that they practically fell over themselves being forthcoming.

"Detective Leon Brown, ma'am, and this is Officer Jones. EOD is Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the 'bomb squad'. There was a second wave of about ten terrorists who were bringing in a bunch of bombs and explosives for booby traps. Looks like it was gonna be like one of those places in Russia where they rigged the whole place to blow. Scuttlebutt says it's enough to take down most of the building."

A shiver went down her spine in spite of the warm sunlight. _Ten_ more. It really could have been much worse. But they failed somehow…

"What happened?" She had to know.

"What happened? A fuc… , uh, a miracle. A sniper took most of 'em out right there on the front steps. The Feds have some guy who has business over here all the time, and he was on his way over this morning. Turns out he knew how to shoot too." He turned and pointed back up 14th Street past the Washington Monument, "Nailed'em from the far side of the Mall over there. None of the explosives ever made it in."

The younger cop chimed in, "There's supposed to be some kind of stink about him not waiting for the rest of his team, but I don't give a damn. If I find out who it is I'm gonna buy him a beer. Hell, make that a case."

_It had to be… _Angela's eyes met hers.

"Booth." They said it simultaneously.

The detective was puzzled by their exchange. She filled him in.

"It sounds like an FBI agent, Seeley Booth. He's my partner…"

The detective interrupted, "Partners. You FBI too?" He looked confused.

_Damn._ "No. It's a long story." He looked a little skeptical but said nothing.

She continued, "Anyway… as we were escaping we ran into him. I… I think we were the very last ones to see him on his way inside." Put that way out loud the words had an ominous ring to them. "I haven't been able to reach him since then, and I haven't seen anyone from the FBI to ask. Is there any way you can help us?"

"I'll see what I can do. I haven't seen any Feds on this side of the building either. If you'll excuse me." The detective stepped aside and used his radio for a minute before nodding and rejoining them. He motioned Marcus closer.

He addressed the young cop, "Lieutenant Hutchins has a couple FBI guys with him over there." He pointed up toward the corner of 14th and Jefferson at the front of the museum to a knot of uniforms and suits. "I told 'em we had an important witness they need to see. Go fetch a Fed and bring 'im back here."

Detective Brown took Marcus' shotgun while the other man trotted up the sidewalk. Meanwhile another uniformed cop showed up with some sort of message.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to take care of this." Brown and the new cop drifted several yards away.

Brennan ignored the soft conversation between Angela, Jack and Zach as she digested what she'd learned. _Oh my…_ She'd had no idea what hell Booth must have already been through by the time she'd seen him, and she was worried about the toll that more killing might have taken on him.

All of which meant she was already emotional when she looked up to see Marcus returning with Agent Williams in tow.

Williams was perfectly polite. It seemed he'd forgotten their little contretemps, which suited her just fine at the moment.

"Thank God, Dr. Brennan. Ms. Montenegro, guys," he nodded toward Hodgins and Zach. "It's great to see you all in one piece." His eyes flickered to her leg, but he said nothing about her injuries since it was clear they'd already been treated.

"What can I do for you?"

Given the circumstances she could be nice too. "Chad, I haven't been able to reach Booth. We last saw him when he was about to enter the museum from the Lab. Can you help us find him?" She glanced at Angela, "We just want to make sure he's ok."

"Sure, Dr. Brennan, give me a minute." He walked a few yards away and dialed his flip phone. While he was waiting for the answer to his query Brennan saw that he actually had the nerve to give Angela a look that could only be described as flirtatious. He was pathetic – but he was helping them willingly so she bit her tongue.

Williams' grin was cut short by something on the other end, and he went ashen.

Instantly Brennan got a sickly, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. She tried to brace herself as the FBI agent slowly closed his flip phone and came closer.

He cleared his throat before speaking slowly, "According to my guy Booth went down taking out the last suicide bomber…"

Angela's gasp nearly drowned out Hodgins' muttered "Oh shit" to Zach. As to Brennan, she felt the word tilt crazily even though she was seated, and she thought she nearly passed out. The hollow empty feeling coalesced into a sharply defined black _hole_ inside her. Her ears were ringing with the sound of her pulse, and her face felt numb as she spoke.

"Is he…" She raised a hand to her mouth. She couldn't bring herself to finish the words.

Williams rushed out, "Oh no! They got the bomber before he could blow himself up. Booth was shot. He's about to be transported to George Washington once their chopper makes another run. "

She nodded her thanks for the clarification as she blinked back the tears that were trying to form.

"I'm going to run and see what else I can find out for you, ok?"

"Thank you," she croaked. The words barely came out.

"No problem." Williams headed back up the sidewalk at a run.

Angela squatted beside her and put an arm around her shoulders and tried to reassure her, "He's going to be all right."

Brennan's rational mind pointed out that Angela had absolutely no basis for saying that given what little information they knew, but for once she didn't question it and instead simply hoped. Hoped that it was just a minor wound…

But Hodgins had to spoil it. "Crap. 'Went down' sure as hell doesn't sound like it was just a 'graze'."

"Jack!" Angela chastised him, but the damage was already done.

"Sorry." At least the entomologist had the grace to blush with some embarrassment before he and Zach sat down on the grass beside them.

None of them hardly breathed until Williams returned.

She couldn't believe she'd been so stupid in the corridor when they'd encountered Booth. She'd been so self-involved and blinded by her emotions… She had been so glad to see him that she'd failed to question what he was doing by himself. Of course she couldn't have asked him not to do his job, but why, oh why didn't she insist that he wait for backup?

Her self-flagellation was interrupted by William's return.

Williams' expression was even grimmer this time. He plunged right in and got it over with.

"Booth was hit multiple times in the abdomen. It's pretty serious."

Angela spoke. "But he was wearing body armor? What happened?"

Williams ran his hand through his blonde hair and shook his head. "I don't know… guess they had 'cop killer' ammo." He let out a sigh then grimaced as he saw Brennan flinch at his choice of words.

"Sorry. I have to get back now, but I'll let you know if I learn any more details. I promise."

Brennan was in a daze. She felt like she was choking. Hodgins of all people had to thank Williams. His bad news delivered, the agent practically fled.

She _hurt_ so badly. Her worry and fear were a physical ache covering her entire body except for the hole in her middle which seemed like it had grown even larger with Williams' latest revelation.

The little nagging voice that was the manifestation of her doubts and fears spoke up:

_You opened yourself up for this. You knew love only makes you vulnerable! And even if he's fine _this_ time, what about the next? There's only one way to protect yourself…_

She dismissed the insidious voice, but she had no real reply. It was right.

Zach's voice brought her partly out of it. He looked worried too.

"Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth's prognosis can't be good. From what I know about severe penetrating abdominal trauma, shock is as great a contributor to mortality as hemorrhage."

"Zach!" It was both Jack and Angela.

Zach cringed, "Sorry."

Brennan looked at them oddly, numbly, wondering why they were getting on to him when he was simply stating the obvious truth…

Welcome distraction came in the form of an EMT who asked to see the transport tag given to Brennan at triage. She was only slowly coming back to full awareness of her surroundings, and Angela actually had to fish it out of her pocket and hand it to the man.

"Ok… looks like you're up. If you'll come with me, we'll get you on your way to the hospital shortly." He waited as her team helped her back into the office chair, then he led off with them following.

At the ambulance she let herself be assisted up into the back, and she lay down on the indicated gurney, saying nothing as the EMT strapped her in. Angela reminded her to keep her phone handy so they could update each other if either learned anything more about Booth. She could only nod. She was so tired…

She looked up when the EMT hopped back down to help wrestle another gurney up into the cramped rear of the vehicle.

The gurney's occupant was unconscious and his face was barely visible underneath the oxygen mask and a large bandage. The EMT hung an IV bag from a recessed hook in the ceiling of the van then started strapping the man in more securely.

Something looked strange about the outline of the sheet covering him…

The answer to the riddle came in the form of the other EMT returning with a bundle that was loosely wrapped in plastic. It was bloody on one end. He passed it up.

"Here ya go. They found us some ice in a break room. Don't know if it'll do any good torn off that way, but I guess that's what they pay the docs the big bucks for."

"Yeah, thanks." The EMT inside the ambulance took the bundle and tucked it under one of the straps beside the patient.

She put the shape of the bundle and what was _missing_ from under the sheet together.

It was a severed arm.

On closer inspection she could just make out fingers through the translucent plastic sheeting. Pink tinted melt water was dripping on to the floor.

The tech noticed her stare. "Uh… sorry about that. You shouldn't have seen that. We lost our ice chest on the last run." He looked down at the arm under the strap and grimaced. "That's the best way to make sure the limb makes it to the same place as the patient."

She still didn't say anything. Something about what the EMT had said tickled at the edge of her awareness.

The EMT reached back and slammed one side of the rear double doors shut. He called out to the driver, "Locking up back here."

It clicked, and she fully woke up. She was such an idiot...

"WAIT!" She practically shouted it. She'd been acting like she'd lost at least 50 points of IQ.

The EMT was startled and stopped with his hand on the other door just before it fully latched shut. She didn't blame him as he'd barely heard her speak at all.

"What hospital are we going to?" she demanded.

"Howard University Medical Center. Why?" He looked annoyed at the interruption.

"I _have_ to get to George Washington!" she insisted.

It was the most important thing in the whole world to her, and it really _was_ a matter of life or death.

Now he looked at her like she was crazy. "Lady, we can't do that. We gotta go where we're dispatched. The ER at GW and some of the other hospitals aren't accepting any more patients. We gotta go where there's still room."

"I don't care. Let me up." She started snatching at the latches of the belts holding her down but had trouble with the release on the last one.

This time he said it. "Lady, are you crazy?"

"LET ME UP!" She thought of another tack. She indicated the other patient, "You don't want to make him wait any longer than he has to, right?"

"Ok, ok!" He unlatched the last stubborn belt, opened both doors, and helped her down. "I don't know what you think you're doing. You shouldn't be driving, and anyway there're roadblocks all over the place and a curfew even if you did."

She nodded absently at the extra information. Angela and the guys were already walking away. Zach was pushing her chair.

"Hey guys, wait up!" She was reenergized for the moment, knowing what she had to do.

Brennan wasn't sure which one of them was the most surprised to see her emerging from the ambulance, but Zach arrived first by a nose. With the chair.

She settled back into it sideways, grateful she hadn't waited too late.

"What's up?" Jack asked as the ambulance doors slammed just behind her, and the van pulled away with its obnoxious siren blaring.

"I need a favor from each one of you."

"Sure!" "Shoot." "Of course!"

_First things first… _She looked up 14th to the corner where Williams had disappeared earlier into the tangle of uniforms and suits. She thought she saw a familiar profile.

"Push me that way. I need to get a ride to George Washington University Medical Center. That's where Booth is."

They were about half way there when the balding head began heading off in another direction.

"Zach."

"Yes, Dr. Brennan?"

"Please go catch Director Cullen and let him know my problem and see if he can help us."

Zach ran off without even saying "Yes, ma'am."

She quit clutching her cell phone and instead put it in her pocket. It had been useless as a talisman after all. She needed a better one. She told Jack what she wanted.

"Aww, come on!" he balked.

She pinned him down with a glare. She could be merciless.

"You owe me. You owe _him_."

He nodded reluctantly and ran off too. He would just have to catch up if he didn't make it back in time.

That left only Angela.

"Ok, sweetie, what do you need me to do for you?"

The two more concrete tasks taken care of, Brennan's weakness returned. She sagged in the chair as her fears for Booth returned full force.

This was the closest she'd come in fifteen years to this topic, ever since she'd finally given up hope of her parents ever returning.

_Hypocrite! You know there's no 'man upstairs'!_ The negative voice was back.

_Shut up! _she replied to herself

She spoke in a very small voice, "I don't believe, but since Booth does…" Even now she couldn't quite bring herself to say it.

Her best friend in the whole world understood anyway.

"I'll say a little prayer for him," Angela replied gently.

Brennan nodded her thanks, blinking back the tears which were trying to gain another foothold. She felt like once she let them out there'd be no stopping them.

A minute later Zach returned with Cullen himself in tow. The Director's retinue included a handful of men with communications gear and an obvious security team.

"Hello, Dr. Brennan, glad to see you made it out. Don't you worry. We're making sure Booth is taken care of properly." He grimaced, and from old habit he ran his fingers over his scalp combing back hair that no longer existed. "He was our only casualty, and we're not going to lose him. You can count on it. Now Addy here tells me you need a ride?"

She nodded, unable to speak at first. His words which were meant to be reassuring only twisted the knife. She cleared her throat.

"My ambulance wasn't going to Booth's hospital, and I heard something about roadblocks. We _have_ to get to George Washington Medical Center." She looked up at him, directly in his eyes, willing him to understand her need.

But he was skeptical. He looked at her leg. "I understand, believe me, but you need to get that shrapnel out and get patched up. The ERs are filling up."

Brennan gave Zach a dirty look for saying too much. He quailed which made her feel bad, but only a little. She looked back to Cullen, "They've let me wait this long. Waiting just a little longer won't hurt anything."

The Director nodded, "I really can't spare any agents, but I'll see what I can do. You're right about the road blocks – you wouldn't be able to get there in your own car. Give us a minute." He backed off and motioned two of his men into a huddle.

She did her damnedest to eavesdrop but couldn't make out anything over the noise of more ambulances pulling out. One of the men spoke into a phone for a minute then shook his head and passed it to Cullen. The Director spoke calmly for a moment then became clearly aggravated. As the last wailing siren dopplered into the distance she could hear him finally…

"…I'm telling you one more time we just need to borrow one of your uniforms and a black-and-white for about half an a hour… Yes, yes I know you're not an ambulance service… No, she just has a minor injury…" Cullen's brow furrowed even deeper as he fumed while listening.

Finally he turned away and exploded. But she could clearly hear everything.

"…I KNOW you don't report to me, Sergeant, but I swear to God that if I don't get a little inter-agency cooperation here I'm going find a way to put my foot so far up somebody's ass I'm kicking tonsils! Let me speak to your Captain!" He waited impatiently, scowling as he grumbled to his men. Just as he started speaking again a helicopter flying overhead drowned him out.

Her hopes rose as his expression finally mellowed and he nodded toward his aides. The rotor noise faded away in time for her to hear him finish. What she saw and heard almost made her break down…

Cullen looked her way, giving her what could only be described as a paternal smile. "…yes, that's right. She's his partner. I owe you one."

She regained her composure as he strode over to her chair and leaned down toward her. "PD should have a car over here in a few minutes. They know it's a priority." He touched her shoulder, "GWU is a Level One Trauma Center. They'll know what they're doing."

Still unable to speak, she covered his hand where it lay and patted it in gratitude. 

Cullen stood up and removed his hand. "Agent Williams will keep in touch. Now if you'll excuse me, Dr. Brennan, I have to get back to work. This is a fresh crime scene after all."

"Thank you." Her voice finally worked again.

He waved a hand behind him in acknowledgement as he briskly walked away, back to the front. His team was caught off guard and had to trot to catch up.

Williams came back one more time while they waited for their ride.

Angela saw Agent Williams approach first, and she tapped Brennan who'd drawn back into herself while they could do nothing but wait.

Angela spoke first, " Is our car…?" but her voice fell as she took in the agent's expression.

Williams swallowed then spoke hesitantly. "I, I just don't understand…" He faltered then began again. "I'm sorry, with all the chaos our latest information was out of date…" His eyes slid away from theirs, and Brennan _knew_. Williams shook himself together then looked at them again, "Agent Booth didn't make the chopper to the hospital."

Angela was angry and confused. "What? Why not?"

Williams looked down at his shoes.

The earth lurched sickeningly on its axis. Brennan spoke up first. She wondered that she could speak at all. "He didn't need the ride."

The blonde agent looked up again, "I'm sorry… Agent Booth is dead."

Angela gasped and sputtered, "But… I thought he's…" She couldn't continue and broke down.

Brennan sank back to the ground, oblivious to the reactions of her friends. It couldn't be…

She felt the hole within her expand to a gaping chasm that threatened to swallow her up. She felt herself teetering on the precipice.

She fell.

After a while she realized that, though the void was empty and lifeless, it was at least tranquil, unlike that part of her still on the outside caught in the storm.

She gave in to it fully. It was the only way she could function. She finally stirred herself. Everything seemed somehow removed, surreal, as if witnessed at a distance, even her own actions.

"Zack, please help me up."

White-faced in shock, he came to her assistance. Jack had returned unnoticed in the meantime and was with a weeping Angela. Her own shock was the only thing keeping her going. She was lost for a moment but then she knew, knew exactly, the one thing she had to do.

She insisted that Williams take her to see him, _now_. He tried to dissuade her, reminding her she still needed medical treatment herself, but her friends had only thought they'd ever seen her be stubborn. He finally relented.

They borrowed a real gurney, ditched the chair, and took her to him.

The small part of her mind standing outside, apart from the barely suppressed chaos of her emotions, knew it was stupid, pointless, but it seemed like there must be some mistake. It wouldn't be real, be _true_, until she'd actually seen his body in a sickening real life version of Schrödinger's Cat.

As they neared the exhibit they passed an EMT crew exiting, looking for someone else they could still help.

Brennan heard some angry shouts in the distance as they snaked through the passageway, bypassing two covered forms, one small.

"You sonuvabitch! 'Had it coming'? If you were here I'd---"

The one-sided exchange was forgotten when she first saw the downed terrorist being photographed by CSI, then the knot of agents and cops standing somber-faced off to the side speaking low amongst themselves. A trail of bloody streaks on the floor disappeared behind them. Wordlessly, she pointed and her friends rolled her forward.

Cullen saw her and left the huddle to intercept her, still open cellphone in his hand. It had been his voice she'd heard. He was red-faced and agitated, but trying to calm himself for her sake. He wearily raised a hand to her.

"Doctor Brennan, I don't think you want to see him just yet." At her look of grim determination he looked her in the eye added gently, "Let them clean him up some first."

"No. I want to see him _now_."

Cullen gave up without a fight and instead held out an arm. "Do you want to get down off that thing?"

She simply nodded, and awkwardly hopped down with Angela's assistance. Cullen grasped her left arm and Angela took her right; together they propped her up as she hobbled forward.

She would never forget the faces on the gathered agents and policemen. Through the forest of their legs she glimpsed a shape on the floor. Her stomach felt she like was in a falling elevator, helplessly waiting for the final impact in the basement.

"I'm sorry, Brennan." She turned to her right. Angela looked pained as she gulped, "I'm sorry… I just don't think I can do this."

Brennan merely nodded. The tears in her friend's eyes made her distantly wonder what was wrong with her own, which were bone dry. Angela went back to where the guys had stopped by the gurney and Williams took her place.

"Make a hole guys," Cullen ordered. "Lady coming through."

His upper body was covered by a sheet that was soaked crimson in spots. The floor was still littered with medical supplies that had been wasted in the end. Unable to tear her eyes away from him, she slipped on the bloody floor but Cullen and Williams caught her. She shook off their arms, took two more steps under her own power, and sank to the floor beside his body. She ignored the smell of urine mixed in with that of all the blood.

Cullen took the edge of sheet, and looked for her nod before lifting it away from Booth's pale, slack-jawed face. Not too bad, she thought. Someone had already made sure his eyes were closed.

She reached out, and, before they could stop her, she pulled the sheet further back.

His bare torso was exposed where the EMTs had sheared away his clothing. The adhesive pads of EKG electrodes still stuck to his skin, pointless with no heartbeat to sense. His belly was distended, no doubt from internal hemorrhage caused by one or more of the four blood smeared bullet holes.

It really was true. He was dead.

She'd just found him…

She finally cried.

After a while, she wiped away the tears and did her best to stop the flow. It was an irrational display – they wouldn't bring him back.

"_I told you so… See? He left you like everyone else you've ever loved." _

She didn't try to argue with the taunting, negative voice of her doubts and fears. She didn't think she ever would again.

She let Cullen and one of the SWAT team help her up, and carefully avoided looking at his body again. To the system it was no longer a person, no longer _him_, but a thing, evidence. There was no way she could watch him be "tagged and bagged."

She caught Cullen's eye. "I'm ready to go to the hospital." It felt like someone else was speaking.

- - - -

Brennan spent one night in the hospital. She'd insisted on being released immediately, but was so exhausted that she finally let Angela persuade her to stay. Even then, she was unable to sleep and finally accepted a sedative.

Her initial interview with the FBI the next day only took a couple hours.

She let Angela stay with her at her apartment and appreciated the company, but she couldn't bring herself to talk about it, not directly. She actually would have rather been back at work, but the Lab was still closed.

Delayed by the need for a forensic autopsy, as if cause of death were in any doubt, the funeral wouldn't be held for almost a week after the attack.

Until then, the days passed like broken glass.


	3. Penumbra ante

**A/N **

**Sorry for the delay. You might wish to restart from the beginning. Chapter 4 is already complete (it's shorter) and will be posted within 24 hours or so.**

_Monday, One Week After the Attack_

Mercifully, by the time the eve of the funeral arrived, Brennan was becoming numb again.

Mostly.

She left her office to rejoin the others after touching up her eye makeup again, minimal as it was, using the small mirror she kept in her desk. The limp from the healing wound in her calf was almost entirely gone. This was her first time back at the Jeffersonian since the day of the attack. Angela had brought her here to meet up with the guys so they could all ride together to the viewing at the mortuary.

The men had their backs to her. Zack was fidgeting.

"I know it's strange, and there's no getting out of this, but I must confess funeral homes frighten me."

Jack looked at him incredulously then chuckled and gestured around them with one arm. "Do you know what we do for a living?"

"Leave him alone." Angela stepped in closer to straighten Zack's crooked, poorly knotted tie, no doubt for the hundredth time. "Surrounded by their loved ones, it's impossible to ignore the fact that the body is a dead _person_."

"He's right, you know," Brennan interjected from behind them. "Funeral homes _are_ disturbing."

Taken off guard by her return, Jack cleared his throat guiltily and backed off a step. "Why?"

"What _we_ have to do in order to identify someone is one thing, but the common practice of embalming and then displaying the remains is practically barbaric. It's human taxidermy."

Angela shook her head resolutely. "No, and you don't really believe that either. It is pretty gross if you think too much about the details, but that's not the point. It's about saying _goodbye_."

Brennan made herself ignore the sympathy in her eyes.

- - - - -

On the way in from the crowded parking lot, Brennan resigned herself again to her participation, small as her role was, in the events of the next twenty-four hours, no matter how much she dreaded them. Although the forms seemed infinitely varied, death rituals themselves were inarguably one of the few true human universals recognized by her discipline. As Zack had said, there was just no getting around it. Too many of the lesser rituals of human interaction she understood only in the abstract and not in their application, so she willingly let Angela take charge of her once they were inside the mortuary.

The crowd was really too large for the facilities even though the divider between two adjacent large parlors had been retracted into the walls. She only recognized a few people here and there. They briefly spoke to Goodman and then, later, Cullen as they entered the informal receiving line to pay their respects to the family. If one more person asked how she was doing she was going to scream.

Rebecca and Parker were accompanied at the head of the line by Booth's maternal aunt from his hometown of Pittsburgh and her husband. They'd heard through the grapevine that the two women had taken care of the arrangements together. At least Booth's parents weren't still alive to see their only child buried.

By the time they reached the family, Parker was no longer there. The aunt apologized, explaining that the boy had become restless and Rebecca had taken him around for some fresh air. That was probably just as well. Brennan let Angela do most of the talking. Generic condolences followed by some obligatory small talk seemed so inane when someone was _dead_, gone forever, their body in the next room. She listened only distantly.

They drifted across to the quieter, far side of the parlor, to the empty space immediately surrounding the casket, empty space which only seemed fitting compared to the emptiness that lay within it. The smell of all the arrayed flowers was cloying.

A stranger helped his wife up from the kneeler in front of the casket, and it was suddenly their turn. Angela linked an arm through hers and took her in tow. She didn't want to get any closer, but she felt helpless to resist.

Brennan stood awkwardly, uselessly, as her friend knelt, crossed herself – probably some residue of a Catholic childhood -- closed her eyes, and appeared to say a short prayer. Sniffling, Angela got up and pulled her closer to the open head of the casket.

For the first time Brennan let herself actually look.

But, thankfully, she didn't see _him_. Instead she just saw some sort of mannequin that vaguely looked like him, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and a solid navy tie. From her professional experience with the recently buried, she knew just how hard it was for the embalmer to achieve a life-like 'just sleeping' appearance even when the deceased had been neither old nor wasting away before death. If you knew what to look for you could easily see where the liquid makeup had been applied, and then powdered to diminish the resulting waxy effect.

She finally realized what was wrong.

"It's the hair," she whispered to Angela.

"What?"

"They have it slicked down and parted. It should be spiky in the front."

She reached out a hand to fix it, but Angela grabbed her arm to stop her just as she touched it. "No," she hissed, looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

Brennan pulled back her hand and let it fall to her side. It was just as well. His hair was thoroughly fixed with hairspray and wasn't going anywhere.

She simply stood there and looked, her emotions a distant turmoil. She kept them at bay by focusing on the mechanics.

Actually, he didn't look too bad. Apart from the fact that the animating force was gone, what they were looking at really _was_ just a shell, one the embalmer had to work with after it had already been thoroughly disassembled and put back together in the autopsy.

The suit completely hid the large T-shaped incision through which the pathologists had removed every organ in the abdominal and thoracic cavities in order to examine them before dumping them back inside, and stitching the cadaver closed.

The face, at least, was not particularly violated. Upon close examination she could see the subtle pursing of the lips where they had been glued shut. Of course, they were only sealed after the mandible had been wired to the maxilla, and padding had been inserted to restore full cheeks sunken by the loss of fluids in the tissues.

The eyelids were glued shut over eye caps which helped hide the fact that the eyeballs had already begun shrinking and sinking into their orbits.

On second thought, it was good that she had not touched his scalp any closer. Feeling the sutures holding shut the transverse supracranial incision that went from ear to ear – done to hide the craniotomy for removal of the brain -- might have been too much even for her.

Out of sight, deep within the orifices, the nasal passages and ear canals were packed with cotton in order to prevent any unsightly leakage.

Lost in thought, she'd not realized that Angela was still beside her, softly crying now. Brennan squeezed her hand and tried to fake a reassuring smile. Sometimes, she forgot she wasn't the only one hurting.

Angela tried to smile back as she wiped at her eyes and nose. "He looks good, doesn't he? They did a pretty good job."

When Brennan looked again, suddenly she started to see _him_. She felt the emotions trying to bubble up to the surface.

She couldn't risk that. She turned back to Angela.

"I think if Zack had macerated the skull for a clean 3D scan, you could have done a better reconstruction digitally using the Angelator."

Angela looked stung, and the tears were back in her eyes. "This is _Booth._" She shook her head and walked away, leaving Brennan alone at the casket.

Adrift, she just stood there.

Afraid to look at the face again, she looked at his hands. They had been posed across his middle holding a rosary. Past his clasped hands, just under the edge of the lid covering the lower two thirds, her eyes caught a glint. She leaned in a little closer for a better look.

"He's wearing it."

Startled, she turned around to face Rebecca.

"I never had a chance to thank you for returning Seeley's grandfather's belt buckle," the other woman said.

Brennan she gestured at the casket. "I… I thought Parker should have it."

"Oh, he will. I'll get it back before the final closing in the morning."

Brennan nodded, not making eye contact. They stood there awkwardly for a moment then she looked Rebecca in the eye. It was petty, given what the other woman must be feeling since she'd loved him, but, suddenly, all Brennan could think about was the time with Booth that Rebecca had stolen from her Saturday a week ago, two hours that would never, ever be replaced.

Her resentment found an outlet.

"You got the tie wrong," she said abruptly.

"Excuse me?" Rebecca was taken aback.

How could they not know? "It should be flashy, bordering on gaudy."

Brennan shouldered past her, looking for Angela.

- - -

Later, just as she found Angela again and apologized with a wordless hug, everyone was called to the inter-faith chapel down the hall for a short memorial service. The aunt thanked everyone for coming then spoke briefly about Booth as a child, the joy he'd given his parents, and how proud of him they would have been. Next, three men of various ages gave a short, round-robin eulogy. Presumably they were old friends or relatives. She did not recognize any of them and found it impossible to pay any attention, even when Cullen stood and briefly made some remarks.

When they were done, a ruddy-faced, gray haired priest rose and was introduced as Booth's pastor. Father McNally delivered the expected inspirational nostrums, leading the group at first in a safely non-denominational Christian prayer. When everyone else including her friends bowed their heads, whether out of participation or respect, she kept hers erect, watching them all curiously. She'd never felt more alone.

When the priest produced a rosary and began reciting what she'd once been informed was called a 'decade', the non-Catholics migrated out to the hallway, but she stayed half in the doorway to listen to the murmuring voices. All but the oldest were on their knees and most took out rosaries of their own to work the beads.

"_Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,_

_Blessed art thou amongst women,_

_And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus._

_Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners_

_Now and at the hour of our death, Amen."_

She listened to the ten repetitions, puzzled. She supposed that in more concrete terms it served as a sort of meditative technique, but taken literally as 'prayer', some sort of communication with their God, it seemed stupid on the face of it. If one presumed that He existed, which she did not, what was the point of the repetition? Did God have short term memory problems, a short attention span, or was He just hard of hearing?

"_Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit._

_As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,_

_World without end, Amen."_

She actually agreed somewhat with the very last part. Her only sort of prayer was the wish that this long hell of a night would soon be over.

Once it was clear things were concluding, the crowd began mingling one last time as people began gathering themselves up and departing. Brennan was just about to join Zack and Jack, from whom she'd become separated, when Angela caught her arm. She was accompanied by the priest, whom she introduced before escaping to join the guys.

Brennan had no idea what she was supposed to say beyond hello. Fortunately, McNally carried the conversation.

"Ah, so you are the partner Seeley told me about a time or two."

The fact that this stranger knew anything about her at all while she knew nothing of him made her uncomfortable.

"Uh, yes."

"If I may be so bold, Miss Montenegro informed me that you had very recently, and privately, become close with Seeley. I could tell, from the way he described you several months ago, that you were getting under his skin in more ways than one, but I didn't pry." He actually had the nerve to smile mischievously.

She didn't know what to say.

His smile changed to a gentler one, and he patted her on the arm. "I know this must be very hard on you, child, particularly without any, shall we say, recognized status." He glanced toward Rebecca and Booth's family when he said it, then back at her. "I could remedy that easily enough if you wish."

She shook her head vehemently. The thought of being pushed front and center was terrifying, would only make things worse.

He nodded and didn't press. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that you are in my prayers."

She couldn't go wherever else he might be heading. Her first impulse for a reply was that, if his God existed, He was a bastard. But, however grating his attentions, it was clear the priest meant well.

So instead she settled for something just a little more gracious. "Thank you, Father, but save your prayers. I'm an atheist." Anything to shut him up.

Instead of being put off by her demurral, he chuckled. "Oh, I recall that too. It's what made Seeley tell me about you in the first place. All things, even doctrinaire atheism, may pass. Your disbelief in God at this precise moment is relatively unimportant. Just know that God believes in _you_, and so, if I am correct, did Seeley."

So that's where he'd got it from. Her acid reply was forgotten.

McNally squeezed her arm again and left without looking back.

While she was still standing there lost in thought, Cullen came up and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Dr. Brennan, we're going to leave here and meet up at O'Malley's Pub for a bit of an Irish wake. You and your squi-, uh, people, are welcome to join us."

She'd just turned to him, about to beg off, when Angela showed up behind her.

"Why, thank you. We'll be there shortly."

- - - -

By the time they found a parking spot and got inside, the first round was already well under way. The dark, traditional, wood-paneled pub was bursting with dozens of agents, by far mostly male, few of whom she recognized. A few cops she'd met before were present as well. Booth's old army buddy, the paraplegic judge she'd once met, was the only outsider other than her team. Agent Williams saw them and helped them squeeze up to the bar to order. While waiting, she noticed Father McNally enter; she promised to avoid him.

A few minutes later Cullen shouted everyone down and waved a mug.

"Everybody got a drink in their hand?" It seemed he'd already had a bit of a head start. "Or maybe two?" He pointed at a young agent with a pint in each hand. Over the chorus of raucous shouts the agent yelled back, "This is Donovan's!" An older agent beckoned him over as the crowd quieted for a moment.

Cullen continued, "Ok, shut up already! I'd like to propose a toast." He raised his mug, and everyone else did too. The few lucky enough to have seats stood up.

"To Seeley Booth, one of the best agents I ever had the privilege of yelling at!"

The men cheered cacophonously.

The wheelchair bound judge was next. "To Seeley Booth, the best man to have watching your back in the shit, and the reason I'm lucky to be in this chair."

A lean and fit gray headed man spoke more quietly, soberly. "To the bravest damned fool stunt I've ever seen." As the cheers quieted, Brennan figured out that he must have been one of the men on the SWAT team.

Finally, Cullen looked expectantly in their direction. It was their turn. She experienced full on stage fright, but, fortunately, Hodgins came through with something apparently satisfactory enough, though she missed it in her mortification.

After the toasts the crowd broke up in to small clusters of agents and cops talking shop or telling anecdotes about Booth, war stories both figurative and literal. She did her best to mingle with Angela, but she quickly got where she couldn't take being introduced as his 'partner' any more and the mandatory clarifications. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but, other than Cullen, it seemed that everyone else who said it placed audible and patronizing quotes around the word.

She felt as out of place, like an intruder, an alien, as she ever had back in the more nightmarish parts of high school.

It should have been a good time. The laughter far outweighed the tears, though there were still plenty of the latter in the muted fashion of strong men, here and there.

She could handle neither.

She watched her colleagues laughing, and even sharing their own stories. She did not begrudge them this outlet, but it was not for her.

What made up her mind was Davis.

In dodging McNally she'd come around to the opposite side of a knot of men, one of the largest, standing raptly listening to Davis, the man who'd made the more somber toast. Jack and Zack were there too. She'd learned he was there at the end, one of the Bureau's SWAT leaders. She'd browbeat her way into seeing some of the grainy security video, but this was somehow different.

"…I'm not saying he was right to get himself in that situation, but, I'm telling you, it really was the bravest damned thing I've ever seen. My oldest boy's over in Iraq, in Ramadi. One guy in his platoon saved his squad by jumping on a live grenade – brave for damned sure, but something that happened in an instant. This here…" He shook his head, wiped at his eyes, and took another drink. "He had time to think it all the way through, knew the odds he was going up against at that close a range, and did it anyway…"

She retreated, unable to stomach the glow of testosterone worship. She knew that wasn't really fair, but, no matter, she still couldn't handle it. That settled it.

She snuck out and called a cab. She only left a message on Angela's voicemail when she was halfway home.

- - -

_Tuesday,10AM, St. Thomas Catholic Church_

One thing Booth's family did get right was the choice of venue, having turned down an offer to use the big cathedral in DC in favor of his parish church.

Everyone assembled out front and waited for the hearse to arrive. Unfairly, it was a beautiful day. Brennan watched Booth's wheelchair-bound friend, the judge, being hoisted up the steps by some agents. Apparently he preferred that indignity to going the long way around to the disabled accessible ramp on the side of the church and possibly missing something.

The black hearse and two big Cadillacs carrying the family arrived accompanied by a fleet of police motorcycles with their flashers on. Cullen was one of the pallbearers; the rest were Booth's uncle and some of his cousins she recognized from the funeral home. The crowd filed in after them. The church was filled to capacity, even to the old fashioned choir loft in the rear where the lone authorized photographer had his tripod set up. No television cameras were allowed inside, one more point she had to allow in McNally's favor.

Brennan and her colleagues ended up six rows back, behind the pews reserved for the extended family on the same side as Parker and Rebecca. The other side of the church had a small VIP section containing the Attorney General, the Director of the FBI, and Deputy Director Cullen. Gregory, whom she'd heard about, was not present. Dozens of agents and cops were behind them.

The funeral Mass was torture.

She ignored the flower draped casket in the front of the church and focused on the service itself. She stood and sat at the appropriate times in that peculiar Catholic version of calisthenics, following the rest of the congregation for cues – after all "When in Rome…" -- but she drew the line at kneeling. Her tolerance for polite hypocrisy only went so far. Instead, she focused on the parallels between the doctrines espoused and the pagan mystery religions of the early Empire such as Mithraism. There was nothing that unique about the idea of a god-king who was sacrificed and reborn, and the forms of the rites, even the priest's vestments, obviously borrowed from the pre-Christian Roman state religion. At Communion she remembered that ritual cannibalism was not that unique either. What was strange was the Catholic insistence on the 'miracle' of transubstantiation -- that the bread and wine _literally_ changed into flesh and blood in spite of all evidence to the contrary. It was Platonic Idealism run amuck.

Skepticism and cynicism aside, the comfort that it all so obviously gave those around her in the face of grief was almost enough to make her wish she believed.

But she didn't.

She would not trade her intellectual integrity for wishful thinking and self-delusion.

She would never meet Booth again in some fairytale heavenly hereafter.

There was no loving or, for that matter, punishing God. There was no afterlife because there was no such thing as an immortal soul, only the complex ephemeral pattern of electrical potentials in the brain which were all too easily snuffed out and lost forever.

All of which, the _truth_, meant that unlike most of those around her, she was left with nothing.

The interminable service finally seemed to be drawing to a close when McNally apparently departed from the script.

"If you will pardon me, before the final benediction I would like to add a few remarks of my own. Many of you may be unaware that the Catholic Church discourages a formal eulogy in the Mass, instead feeling that the proper place for that is at a separate memorial service, such as last night's wake, at which many fine heartfelt words were said about our friend. The reason for this is that, quite properly, the purpose of the Mass of Christian Burial is to bear witness to the miracle of Jesus Christ as our Risen Savior and to remind us of the promise of our own salvation… and that the departed is already in a better place."

"That said, I am going to bend the rules a little, here on this beautiful morning, and tell you about Seeley Booth. However," he held up a hand, "I am not going to aggrandize him. That is not why I am speaking to you now. His praises were sung last night, and his virtues evident enough to anyone who knew him."

"All too often when the label of 'hero' gets attached to a man, a sort of hagiography sets in and some of the underlying humanity is lost. We forget that these 'heroes' were real people."

"So," he paused, "instead, I am going to talk about his flaws, his failings."

He let that sink in for a moment, an awkward silence if ever there was one.

"I first met Seeley several years ago when he moved closer to the Washington area not long after graduating from the FBI Academy at Quantico. Like many young men, he'd drifted away from the Church then returned in his maturity. He was looking for a nearby church and we seemed to hit it off, so he became my parishioner, and I became his pastor. I also became his confessor, although not quite so frequently as I might have liked." He punctuated that with a wry grin that brought scattered chuckles from the congregation.

He held up a hand as they faded. "First, just so no one gets concerned, or if the archbishop is listening, I am not going to violate the sanctity of the confessional, but will confine my comments to facts already known to many of you, his family and friends."

He took a breath and started.

"In those early years we talked many times about the things troubling him in his life, various ghosts and demons, and I came to consider him a friend. These last two years I did not see him outside of Sunday Mass as much as I used to, but that was ok. It seemed he genuinely did not need our talks as much as before. He was happier, more centered."

"But I meant what I said. Like all of us, Seeley Booth was a flawed man."

He surveyed the pews. Like everyone else, Brennan was now paying rapt attention.

"He joined the FBI partly as a way of seeking atonement for all of the blood on his hands. There was a lot of it. In the Army, wearing the uniform of his country, he became a sniper, a job at which he excelled. There was the expected ugliness of the battlefield, but there were many other more troubling missions, some of which verged on assassination. Now, in the FBI, he wanted to save lives instead of taking them."

"One might expect that a man with his past would have become cold, heartless, uncaring, but not Seeley. If anything, he possibly cared too much. He assumed too much responsibility for things which he could not control, or for those for which he'd already been absolved. That is actually a twisted form of the sin of pride."

"Speaking of pride, he could be stubborn, inflexible when he thought he was right, conceited in his opinions. As a result, this also meant that he chafed at legitimate authority, and sometimes thought the rules did not apply to him. Paradoxically, he was quick to see these same flaws in others."

"He could be too judgmental and yet, simultaneously, have a bad temper and be impulsive himself. Many of you may already know that he suffered an addiction to gambling, one which, with the help of prayer and a lot of counseling, he was able to control."

"Although he loved his son Parker more than anything else in his life, he was never the father he wanted to be, the father he should have been. Like the rest of us, his failings seemed to easily match his successes on any given day."

"Yes, Seeley Booth was a flawed man, but eight days ago, by the grace of God, his weaknesses became strengths in the hour of direst need."

"His flaws became boldness and initiative, decisiveness and daring, became the courage to act unflinchingly in the face of paralyzing evil, and the conviction that one man could make a difference in spite of indecision by those charged with protecting the good."

He looked around the church, seemingly trying to make eye contact with everyone.

"The expert killer gave hundreds the gift of continued life, the frustrated father defended other men's wives and children as his own, and the gambler knew when to place the greatest bet available to any mortal man, a wager he lost only by the standards of this world."

McNally had to pause, clearly moved by his own words. He briefly looked down and crossed himself. He cleared his throat as he looked up again.

"In the Gospel of John, chapter 15, verse 13, Christ himself tells us that 'Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.'"

"Then what about twenty-three perfect strangers?" He let the question hang in the air for a few seconds.

"In future crises we can only pray that God, in His infinite mercy, will bless us with more flawed men like our friend, Seeley Booth."

There was a little more, but she could neither see nor hear it.

- - - - - - - -

_Arlington National Cemetery_

An hour and a half later it was all finished.

The vehicles of the funeral procession were accompanied to the chapel at Fort Myer, adjacent to the cemetery, by Virginia State Troopers as well as DC police. The casket was then removed from the hearse, draped with an American flag and loaded onto the antique horse drawn caisson. Immaculately attired soldiers of the US Army's 3rd Infantry Regiment, "The Old Guard," led the silent parade to the gravesite approximately one half mile away amidst acres of simple white markers.

Cullen pulled the crew from the Jeffersonian to join him at the head of the FBI's honor guard of what seemed like a hundred suited agents, directly behind the family and the soldiers around the caisson.

When they arrived, the sabre-bearing sergeant-major softly called the cadence as his team gently lowered the casket on to the straps over the open grave.

The priest said his words, and a lone piper from one of the police departments played the tune to Amazing Grace on bagpipes. Somehow it was not a cliché.

The seven members of the rifle party fired three volleys in rapid succession.

The bugler played 'Taps'.

The casket team slowly removed the flag and folded it with white-gloved robotic precision.

The sergeant-major presented the triangle to Parker where he sat on his mother's lap.

It shouldn't have been nearly so moving, as all cultures, from a Neolithic tribe, to a classical Greek _polis,_ to the modern Westphalian nation-state, had special death rites for maintaining the loyalty of those warriors still living.

But it was.

After the closing prayer of the graveside service Brennan stood apart as the crowd mingled a few minutes longer then began to disperse. Clueless VIPs gave Rebecca their condolences as if she were his widow. The fit walked back in the direction from which they'd come earlier, and few of the elderly or infirm were picked up by car. She hugged Jack and Zack tightly when they took their leave.

She refused to participate in the last, informal, part of the ritual – placing a few clods of earth on the now bare casket, but she would not leave until the very end.

McNally seemed to be lingering, waiting for something. He kept looking at her.

She gave in and went to him.

- - - - -

Off to the side a few dozen yards, she held on to the rough bark of an elm tree as she watched the last of the other mourners go. McNally was picked up by the funeral director for the ride back to his church.

She never wanted to see him again.

He'd nearly destroyed her, not once but twice. The unexpected speech during the Mass had left her in turmoil, with warring feelings of sadness, pride, and anger. Anger at Booth. Then guilt about the anger.

Just now he'd done it to her all over again with Booth's last words: 'Tell her…' and something about 'bones'.

No doubt he'd thought he was giving her a gift, when actually the fragmentary message was the cruelest thing she'd ever heard. It would be fair to say she hated the priest.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and vowed to never think about the unfinished sentence again.

But she still couldn't bring herself to leave, not yet.

The interment crew began their work. A dirty white work truck backed up, and two men jumped out who began folding up chairs which they loaded into the back of the pickup. Next they rolled up the green Astroturf that had been used as a ground covering under the chairs, then collected the standing flower arrangements. In the meantime other men released the straps which allowed the casket to slowly lower into the vault.

Back under a copse of trees in the distance she could see a small front-end loader waiting. It would be used to place the lid on the vault and then fill in the remaining space with dirt. Strips of sod already existed somewhere that had been cut to the right dimensions.

It was finally time to go.

She turned back to Angela, who'd been waiting patiently, for their walk back to the car.

Angela put an arm through hers and patted her hand. "Sweetie, it's going to take some time, but it will get better. Trust me."

"I know."

She hoped that it would, and, intellectually, she knew it would.

But she had absolutely no idea how.

- - - - -

_Wednesday, 9AM, Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Lab_

Brennan blinked back tears of frustration as she slammed shut the big drawer of the file cabinet after retrieving her purse.

In what had turned into a shouting match, Goodman had ordered her to take a few more days off and not come back until she'd seen the grief counselor.

The last thing she needed was some stranger, some quack, rummaging around in her head. What she needed to do was _work_. If she stayed around her empty apartment another day she would go insane.

She snatched up her car keys but was blocked at her door by Angela, who touched her shoulder.

"Put your stuff away. I fixed it. Goodman agreed you can stay."

Irrationally, she lashed out at her friend.

"How'd you manage that? Did you remind him I have no family to go home to?"

"Not exactly..." Angela pulled her into a hug. "I told him your family is _here_."

Brennan blinked, closed her eyes, and returned Angela's hug.

If she pretended that she was ok, if she could just pretend hard enough, then maybe it would be true.


	4. Umbra

**A/N**

**Warning: This one chapter is rated M.**

Over the next month, things slowly returned toward normal.

Pretending was paying off.

She threw herself back into her work, frequently putting in twelve hour or longer days. It was easier that way. Who needed "grief counselors" with their pseudo-scientific theories from psychology when all that she needed to finally start feeling alive again, at least a little, was the challenge of the bones? Everything else could be forgotten. At work in her domain, when in the zone of her discipline, she could smile, be alive. She'd even begun laughing again, a little, at Jack and Zack's antics.

Some topics, of course, were still verboten, _tabu_, around her.

Angela still periodically tried to get her to "talk", but the damage had been done, had become part of the immutable past. There was simply no point in dissecting it _ad nauseam_.

Scabs were best left unpicked.

It was a little tough at home by herself in the evenings sometimes. It wasn't that she was unused to a semi-hermitic existence, far from it, but that was the only time she slowed down enough for her thoughts to stray, to think too much. It was far better to work until she was ready to collapse into sleep in order to minimize the troublesome intervals in between.

Life in this mode was not without its drawbacks although things were gradually getting better. She'd finally felt like visiting her dojo to work out again just the other night, the first time since the funeral a month ago. She would probably have put on some weight in the meantime but for the fact that she still wasn't eating much, frequently forgetting meals outright. Angela, however, was all too happy to remind her when that happened. Letting her friend occasionally twist her arm into going out to eat with her was Brennan's only real concession to her need for human contact. It was always restaurants, however. Late night Thai carryout dredged up too many memories.

Another casualty was her writing, a shame since her latest novel was very nearly finished, but there it sat on her hard drive, figuratively collecting dust.

She had a rough patch when Goodman and Cullen brought her first new case for the FBI. She nearly panicked at the thought of being assigned another agent to work with, an unwelcome substitute, but they actually understood. The cases were just explained and the files dropped off with the remains by a faceless agent serving as no more than a glorified courier. Mercifully, it was usually a different, interchangeable agent every time, and there was no more talk of "partners".

If it had been offered, she would have refused. The only field work she did any more was recovery. No more visits with the bereaved digging for clues, no more interrogating suspects.

She was once again, slowly, becoming 'normal', but in many ways it was the old Temperance, the one of two or three years ago.

She knew that reverting meant regressing in a sense, but that was ok.

It was comfortable. Safe.

She told herself that what she and Booth had was just a friendship that got entangled with a sexual attraction, not really 'love', because if it wasn't, then perhaps she wouldn't have to hurt so badly. A small part of her recognized the self-deception even as the larger part of her desperately clung to it. She knew they should have just had sex and gotten it out of their system, clearing the air, but he'd always shied off, or pretended not to notice, when she'd casually put out a feeler a time or two before. He was so stubborn, or perhaps she, of all people, had just been too subtle after all. Or perhaps, given his cognitive dissonance with respect to antiquated sexual mores, she'd not been subtle enough. Regardless…

The next week she set out to test her thesis with an experiment: she went by herself to a club to which she'd once let Angela drag her in the past.

It was already late. She paused outside a long time, watching happy couples enter and leave. Others entered singly and left in pairs. Though the streets were still wet and shiny from an earlier rain, the night was now clear and cool, with a waxing quarter moon low in the cloudless sky. She paid the cover charge and went inside.

She observed the mating rituals, including male and female courtship displays, from the bar where she quickly threw back two drinks to strengthen her resolve while simultaneously lowering her inhibitions. Alcohol was a known social lubricant. She then selected her prey. He was sufficiently physically attractive, well groomed, implying good hygiene, and his clothing, shoes and watch indicated reasonably high socioeconomic status. He was also with two male friends, not yet involved with any competing females, already well 'lubricated', and apparently heterosexual judging by the appreciative glances he gave passing women.

He also happened to look nothing whatsoever like a certain FBI agent.

She performed the barest minimum of the rituals. Angela had always said men were pretty simple creatures once you understood them, and it seemed she was correct. Brennan's directness achieved the desired result, and within thirty minutes her 'date' had excused himself from his friends – who'd made no secret of their approval – and followed her out to her car.

As she pulled the keyless entry remote out of her bag she realized that she couldn't bear the thought of taking this stranger home to her apartment, her only refuge apart from her lab. She certainly was not going to _his_ place, either. She didn't even remember his first name, that fact having utterly no bearing on her purpose. Yet she _needed_ to do this. Perhaps she shouldn't have had those two additional drinks she'd let him buy her in order to fulfill his part of the ritual, affirming him in his traditionally male role as the pursuer.

She looked around. She'd parked around the corner from the club on a side street that was filled with parked cars on either side. Many of the cars were now missing, and the sidewalks were currently empty of people. She turned to him and plastered on a smile.

"Let's do it here, in the car."

At his enthusiastic response she finally started to feel her own anticipation rising, finally getting into the mood instead of seeing it as lab work. She really did need this.

They got in the car from the front passenger side, and she slid her hips back across the seat. He still had a foot on the ground so the door could not even close, but she didn't care. She pushed his hands off her, instead going straight to loosen his belt and unzipping him. He was ready almost instantly in her hands, so she wasted no time putting on the condom she'd made sure to bring. She was totally no nonsense, businesslike, almost mechanical as she removed her panties from beneath the rarely worn, relatively short skirt she'd intentionally worn for this moment.

A better man, or at least a more sober one, might have been put off by her manner, but not this one. Apparently she'd chosen well enough.

With a grin and a shrug, he climbed on top of her.

In their fore-foreplay in the bar she'd carefully kept her "date" from catching her lips with his, but he surprised her when he made a token attempt to at least make out with her first.

She had a flash of the kiss in the corridor of the Jeffersonian and froze for a moment, suddenly unsure of herself, but she tried to beat back the sense of betrayal. She welcomed the distraction of the slight pain as he entered her. In spite of the spermicidal lubricant, her body wasn't quite ready. She closed her eyes and rode the sensations, trying to forget, and her body finally adjusted, finding its rhythm. She needed this release.

Carried away, suddenly the shoulders she was stroking seemed broader, more muscled than she knew they were.

She couldn't help herself.

"_Booth…_" she breathed.

Then she gasped as what she'd said fully registered.

"No…" What was she doing?

He leaned back and gave her a friendly leer, "It's ok, baby, I don't exactly remember your name either." His pelvis was still reflexively thrusting, slowly.

"Stop!" This was so horribly wrong…

Her companion stopped thrusting completely, confused, but he was still inside her.

She panicked.

It wasn't date rape, not even close, and he didn't at all deserve what came next.

She hit him in the face with a palm-heel strike. He rocked back, withdrawing though he was still over her as he clutched his broken nose in shock. She'd clearly heard the cartilage of the septum snap even though she'd been unable to fully wind up. She still felt trapped.

"'No means no'!" she shouted as her hands on his torso pushed him back further. She rocked back on her hips to draw her knees up toward her chest then kicked out with both feet, knocking him out of the unlatched door, tumbling onto the concrete sidewalk.

His look of disbelief upon seeing his hands reddened by the blood pouring from his nose quickly changed to anger. He struggled to get back up.

"You crazy fucking bitch!"

She panted heavily for a moment, aghast at what she'd done.

"I'm sorry," she choked out as she closed the door, locking it as he started beating on the window. Shaking and thoroughly sickened with herself she scooted the rest of the way over into her seat, started the ignition and floored it, tires squealing as she drove away. The man, whoever he was, was no brute. He just was no Booth.

She'd been such a fool.

She stopped the car at the red light three blocks down, opened her door in the middle of the nearly empty street, and vomited onto the pavement.

She turned onto the next side street, pulled over to the curb, and turned off the engine. The full, undeniable enormity of what she'd lost descended and crushed her.

She wept bitterly for a long time.

When she finally drove away, the oncoming headlights were blurry all the way home.


	5. Penumbra post

**A/N**

**Only one chapter left.**

Three weeks after her disastrous 'date', Brennan was working at home. The apartment was soothingly cool and gloomy with no lights on and the blinds still half closed. She was surrounded by big boxes and cartons as she fed papers into the shredder, making sure she inserted no more than ten at a time in order to keep from jamming it.

She still wasn't sure if what she was doing counted as 'moving on' or 'running away.' All that she knew, with perfect certainty, was that she couldn't stay, could no longer keep up the charade, pretending nothing had happened. The Jeffersonian just held too many painful reminders of the past two years which, she'd realized too late, had been the happiest period of her adult life. Worse, it held too many reminders of a future that might have been.

Two days after the incident outside the club, she'd given Goodman her notice.

He did not put up much of a fight so she did not have to go into her reasons. It seemed that he knew anyway. His only resistance had been to the manner of her leaving. She finally let him recast her resignation as a one year professional leave of absence, with the proviso that she made no promise to actually return. She told him she didn't think she would; however, the ever practical part of her gave into his insistence that a leave of absence would make it simpler if she should change her mind. Perhaps she was just too cowardly, or too stubborn, to completely let go.

She'd felt like she was abandoning Zack in particular, but it really was time for him to move on too and finally finish his doctorate. She'd told him that if he hurried, he might even land her old job.

The movers would come tomorrow to put her belongings into storage. She'd already paid off the remaining two months on her lease. If she did come back, it wouldn't be to this place. The next day, after spending a night with Angela, she would board a flight to Paris, then go on to Sarajevo, headquarters for the International Commission on Missing Persons. She'd signed up with them for one year to go wherever they needed her. Mass graves were still being discovered in Bosnia and Kosovo even after all these years.

It was what she did, or, as someone else might have put it once, her vocation, her calling.

And it wasn't here.

She was lost in thought, the sheaf of papers still in her hand, when someone knocked at the door unannounced. At this time of day she was unconcerned. Anyway, now there was only one person who ever did that.

"Come in! It's unlocked."

Angela entered and cautiously navigated the cluttered room to the couch near her. She'd not seen her in person since the posthumous award ceremony at the White House a few days after she'd quit. It was only Angela's moral support that had made it possible, just barely, for her to attend. Brennan moved over a stack of books to clear a spot for her to sit before smiling at her best friend.

"What are you doing here? Does Goodman know you're playing hooker?"

Angela grinned. "Trust me, if I was, he'd be the last person to know. Well… other than Zack."

Brennan grinned back at her uncertainly.

Angela sighed then smiled again. "Sweetie, a 'hooker' is a street prostitute. Going AWOL is 'playing hooky'. And I'm not."

"Oh… not which?"

"Neither, silly. I figured I'd burn up a personal day." Angela paused for a moment. "You know we only get back pay for unused vacation days."

Angela just looked at her as it slowly sank in.

"Oh, Angela! I hope you didn't quit because of me." Brennan looked away, not wanting the responsibility. "If this is some misguided attempt at a show of solidarity… As much as I appreciate the gesture you shouldn't have. Goodman has to take you back. I'll…"

"Shut up."

"But…"

"Shhh."

Brennan looked back at Angela, set the papers on her lap and waited.

"You know I've been wrestling with the grim reality of what we do for a while now, that I've been tempted to throw in the towel. I just can't do it anymore, not without two of my friends to help me." Angela blinked repeatedly.

For once Brennan knew when to shut up. She simply hugged her friend.

When they pulled apart, they each pretended not to see the other one discreetly wipe at her eyes.

"I've got an idea," Angela announced. "You've been holed up in here too long and need a break. Let's just say to Hell with it and just go for a drive for a little while. It'll be lunch time before long anyway."

At first Brennan refused but then she changed her mind. Everyone she'd ever loved had left her except for Angela. For once, she would be the one leaving first. She supposed she owed Angela humoring her in this.

"Ok. I'm almost done here. Go on out and I'll be there in a second."

She emptied the shredder's receptacle into an open green trash bag and paused to take stock of her progress. All of the old bills and receipts had been taken care of, and nearly all of the latest, weeks old, hardcopy printout of her manuscript. Her publisher had had a fit when she told them she wanted to sit on her new, virtually complete novel for a while before releasing it, maybe a year. _Maybe never_, she still thought privately. They'd threatened to unleash a battalion of lawyers for breach of contract until her agent had made them see reason using the purely hypothetical prospect of future as yet un-contracted novels as a carrot, and they'd agreed to the delay.

She picked up the remaining manuscript from where it had slid off her lap to the floor, and she put another sheaf of papers from the dwindling stack into the shredder. Then, suddenly, it was _there_, staring her in the face. Her breath caught at the unexpected sight, but she clamped down on her emotions ruthlessly.

She'd been unaware she'd begun shredding the document from the back, but subconsciously she must have been dragging her feet.

Now, the title page faced her.

The original, provisional dedication a year ago had been, "This book is dedicated to the unknown dead. You are faceless but not forgotten."

More recently she'd replaced the text in her word processor with "This book is dedicated to my partner and friend, Special Agent Seeley Booth."

Still more recently, she'd manually marked it up, inserting the words "the memory of" in blue ink.

The warped pulp fibers and the bleeding of the water soluble ink still revealed that the page had been damp in spots at one time.

She forced herself to breathe again, put it in the shredder, and walked out the door.


	6. Transit

**A/N**

**This is the final chapter. Special thanks to astridv, a2zmom and makd for various degrees of beta.**

Brennan let Angela drive as it was her idea after all. The day was sunny and comfortably warm so they had the windows down. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Getting some fresh air really was a good idea. For the most part they chatted about nothing of importance, then at times simply shared the companionable silence of friends who had nothing to prove.

Angela suggested a new place across the river in Arlington for lunch, and she agreed. They drove along the north side of the Mall then cut across and swung around the Tidal Basin near the Jefferson Memorial. Tourism seemed like it was inching back up toward normal. Although she hadn't been able to make herself pay too much attention, the news had been full of reports of arrests overseas and successful air strikes and covert snatch and grabs. She supposed that was responsible for some renewed confidence. That plus the still visibly increased security presence around the city.

They headed north again and looped around the Lincoln Memorial on Ohio, but instead of continuing on to the I-66 bridge across the Potomac, Angela merged into the lane leading to a smaller bridge heading more directly west.

The Arlington Memorial Bridge.

She'd been had. She turned to her friend.

"Angela…"

"It's practically on our way." Angela kept her eyes on the merging traffic.

"That's not the point." Brennan clutched the shoulder strap of her own seat belt. "I… I can't."

Angela glanced at her, her expression firm. "Nonsense. I'm not letting you go away without saying goodbye."

Unless she was willing to bail out of a moving, vehicle she was trapped. Within a few minutes they passed over the river, under the George Washington Expressway on the other bank, and then through the gate into the cemetery.

Their route took them on narrow service roads named after dead generals, admirals and presidents: Eisenhower, McClellan, Roosevelt, Grant, Halsey. Brennan had no idea where they were going. She had not been back, but Angela had apparently done her homework.

One field of white marble markers looked pretty much like any other, but something about this particular section struck a chord just as Angela slowed down further and pulled the car partly off the narrow pavement and onto the grassy shoulder.

Without another word, Angela turned off the ignition, got out, and quickly came around to her side. Brennan felt the urge to hide, to do anything but this, but, when Angela opened her door and extended a hand, she felt helpless to resist anymore. She swallowed, unbuckled her seatbelt, and let Angela lead her by the arm.

However, they first stopped at the trunk. Angela let go of her for a second, clicked it open and retrieved a simple bouquet.

"You _planned_ this," Brennan accused.

Angela dimpled. "Guilty as charged." Their smiles faded quickly as they resumed their walk.

Brennan surprised herself by knowing down which row of headstones to turn. She'd thought everything around her was a blur at the funeral, but her subconscious must have been paying closer attention than she'd given herself credit for.

They stopped in front of one marker that seemed a little whiter than the others immediately surrounding it. Yes, it was the right one. You could still just see where the turf had been disturbed and re-sodded.

Below the surname and the range of dates were some additional facts: 'U.S. Army', 'Purple Heart', 'Bronze Star'. More freshly inscribed further below were 'FBI' and 'Medal of Valor'.

All too inadequate and yet fitting.

Brennan watched as Angela bent and placed the bouquet on the ground in front of the marker next to a small American flag and a plastic bottle that apparently contained some kind of note.

They just stood there together for an endless minute in silence. After waiting what she hoped was a decent interval, Brennan turned and spoke first.

"Are… are we done here?"

"Not quite. I want you to do me a favor and just talk to him, ok?"

This was irrational nonsense.

"Angela, you know I don't believe he's down in there or," she pointed skyward, "up there." She lowered her hand and made herself say it. "He's _no_where. He's gone."

Angela gave her arm a squeeze. "Just _try_. Please. You need this even though you think you don't."

Brennan shook her head, blinking. "There's no one to talk to, no one to hear."

Angela shook her head in return. "Think of it like that therapy where someone beats up a pillow as a way of letting out their repressed anger."

She had to let out a sickly laugh at that. "You know how I feel about psychology."

Angela countered with a gentle grin of her own. "Then just think how Booth would have enjoyed the joke. Please."

She took a few deep breaths. "Ok." She'd try.

"I'll be in the car."

Brennan nodded at her friend's back. In seconds she was alone.

She just stood there stupidly, uselessly, then she tried.

"I…" She began and faltered. Nothing. This was an exercise in foolishness.

Six feet below her lay nothing but organic debris. Residue of the man, literally the 'remains,' already beginning decomp. In spite of the formalin solution used during embalming process, the process of putrefaction would have begun with aerobic bacteria already present. If any eggs had been deposited by alighting insects on the floor of the Jeffersonian they would have already hatched, possibly more than one generation before the oxygen was depleted, and they all died. At that point the anaerobic bacteria would take over, and, if the pH and moisture were right, saponification of the fats might begin.

The thought of _him_ morphing into waxy adipocere suddenly made her gag. If she'd already eaten lunch she would have thrown up. She held her stomach and trembled as the near-heaves subsided. This was a terrible idea.

She was about to turn back in defeat when the plastic bottle caught her eye. Desperate for any distraction she picked it up. She held it up to the light and rotated it back and forth.

She caught a glimpse of crayon and almost broke down. As she hurriedly returned the container to its resting place, the fleeting image of the small silvery revolver from the shooting range was tossed up by her subconscious, sparked by association.

She finally knew what to say.

Her voice was shaky as she stood up again. "When I get settled in I'll write a letter to Rebecca for Parker. I promise. I think I can remember most of what you told me about your guns. I hope someone will teach him how to shoot some day."

Her eyes became watery, and she felt like she was about to choke unless she spoke again.

"I miss you."

She wiped at her face.

"I think… no, I know, I was a better person with you, more open, more alive. I'm afraid I'm losing that without you."

She sniffed.

"I know you'd want me to try, but, I'm sorry, going away is the only thing I can think of to do."

Her eyes flooded as the rest came out.

"I'm sorry I was angry at you."

She should have been angry at herself.

"I'm sorry I didn't try to stop you from going in without backup."

She broke down for a minute.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to realize how I felt about you."

"I'm sorry you never got to hear me say I…". She choked on the words, "…to say that I…"

She broke down again. Even now, she couldn't quite make herself say it out loud. She was just still too raw.

She wiped her eyes more thoroughly and collected herself before turning to go join Angela.

"Maybe in a year," she whispered to no one, but on the way to the car, for now, she didn't, couldn't, let herself look back.

Maybe someday.

_Maybe never._

"Shut up," she told the nagging voice.

A lot could change in a year.

She was counting on it.


End file.
